Fool Me Once
by Lurea
Summary: Deacon and MacCready meet pre-Sole Survivor in Diamond City. Deacon's after intel and MacCready, a Gunner, is the target. Drinking, bad flirting, and more ensues-because Deacon does occasionally over-complicate things. What happens in Diamond City should stay there, but instead it leads to: Still killing people for caps? Dunno, you still pretending to be anybody but yourself?
1. Chapter 1

**This fiction features a slash relationship.**

 **Tags: Deacon/MacCready, slash, angst**

 **Trigger warnings for dub con and drugging.**

 **So why are Deacon and MacCready so snippy with each other when Sole swaps them out?**

 **Deacon: Still killing people for caps, MacCready?**

 **MacCready: I don't know...you still pretending to be anybody but yourself?**

Deacon slumped down on the bench, eyes on the mark. Mark. Heh. Look at him, dropping names and dispensing justice. Just like the Silver Shroud.

The mark was currently rendering a perfectly good stingwing filet into an accumulation of fragments. Uneaten fragments. Trouble? Why sure, friend, let Deacon give you some advice. And some info in exchange.

He was some Gunner named MacCready, and one of the few that they had spotted travelling alone, both to and from the Plaza. He arranged shipments of supplies, carried a sizeable amount of caps, and seemed to be on good terms with Wes and the outlying commanders. All that added up to a target acquired. He didn't look like much, Deacon thought critically. He was wearing typical gunner leathers with a cap pulled low over his eyes. Reddish-brown hair. Not exactly muscle-bound.

Deacon sighed and suppressed the urge to shift around on the bench. He wasn't that big into personal recon. He was more of a watch and wait type. From a distance. But Glory was busy, others were recovering from the Lexington disaster, and Dez had pulled him off his periodic stakeout of the old Vault. As Desdemona had pointed out, it wasn't like he was doing anything useful. The way her lips thinned on the word 'useful' got his back up. It'll be useful someday, Dez, he told her mental image silently. Just you wait.

The Gunner picked up his half-empty glass of moonshine and tossed it down. Ugh. Deacon had his doubts that the stuff was actually intended for human consumption. Beside him on the bench was a bottle of the finest bathtub gin, courtesy of Tinker Tom. Speaking of which...he pulled the cork and took a quick swig, straight from the bottle. He rolled it around in his mouth and discreetly spit it into a cup. All of the fragrance, none of the drunkenness.

 _Ingratiate yourself_ , Dez had told him sternly. _Find out if there's anything to that dead drop about the Gunners. And stop acting like you don't know what ingratiate means, Deacon_. All right, Dez, he silently acquiesced. I'll do my best ingratiating. Uh-oh, looky there. MacCready was putting down his glass and shifting around. All the signs of a gentleman that is preparing to leave an establishment. Big sigh from mental-Dez: _And for heaven's sake, Deacon, don't over-complicate things_.

Hey, that offended him. He never…well, rarely. Okay, occasionally he over-complicated things. But this—a bit of gossip gathering. No biggie. Mental-Dez snorted. Yeah, but…he'd picked up the mark at the gates, followed him to the Dugout, and positioned himself on a bench by the door, with MacCready none the wiser.

Now he rose, casually settling his sunglasses and hat, and picked up his bottle. Took a few casual steps until he was alongside the table. Allowed his gaze to drift casually over. Did a double-take. The guy glanced up too and their eyes met.

"Whoa!" Deacon exclaimed. "I know you. It's been a while..." He snapped his fingers, looked up as if searching his memory. "Uh, MacCready, wasn't it?" He grinned. "Yeah, from Gunner's Plaza. How ya doing, man?"

MacCready was obviously pulled out of his thoughts but after a few moments, he smiled guardedly. "Doing all right, I guess. How about yourself?"

Not waiting for an invitation, Deacon pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. Table was small enough that their knees touched. "You had to ask! 'Bout got myself skinned poking around Fallon's. The big one south of here. More mutants than I remembered." He shuddered. "And those creepy dogs. Total Hound of the Baskervilles vibe."

He scooted his chair in a little closer and folded his arms on the table. His knee bumped MacCready's again. He set the bottle down next to the other's glass. Nice hands. Tanned, steady, long fingers. Hmmm…Deacon didn't subscribe to the theory that hands gave a preview of...other parts, but he did have to admit the guy had nice ones. Interesting. Dez hadn't told him to flirt. But then again, she hadn't explicitly told him _not_ to flirt either. And really, what was the quickest way to get information? A long night spent getting drunk with the guy, or … A long night spent having sex with the guy? Okay, maybe there wasn't an actual _time_ savings, but still-


	2. Chapter 2

Mental-Dez was disapproving. _Keep it simple, Deacon!_ All right, Dez—well, we'll just see what happens, eh?

MacCready glanced down distractedly and moved his chair back. "Uh, hound of what?"

"Old story. Awesome and spooky and with a hot detective. Not like Nick. Even better. Be nice to me and I'll tell it to you. Here, let me." Deacon leaned forward until he could see the color of MacCready's eyes. Clear blue. Unusual. He liked it. His own eyes were the boring kind of blue that looked grey most of the time, green part of the time, and occasionally hazel. It was useful for disguises but memorable it was not. He filled Mac's glass half full of gin and handed it to him. "But really, what am I saying, just give me, like, any encouragement at all and I'll tell it to you. "

"Uh, thanks?" MacCready took the glass, fingers brushing his, and Deacon held on just a beat too long, watching him. MacCready glanced at it and set it down, instead of sipping. Damn. "So much as I love creepy old world stories, I gotta say…Fallon's, huh? That place has been full of mutants forever. You're lucky you got out in one piece."

"Oh, I didn't. No. I left all sorts of pieces behind." Deacon saluted MacCready with the bottle and then took a swig. Licked his lips deliberately. MacCready's eyes dropped down and then away. Hah.

MacCready frowned slightly and looked over at him like he thought he might have injuries. Deacon grinned to himself and let him look. MacCready's gaze swept over him from head to toe. Deacon took the opportunity to return the assessment. Shorter than him, lean—some might say scrawny, but that's because they're missing the subtle bulk of muscle in his shoulders and biceps.

MacCready caught him looking and his lips quirked. "It doesn't look like anything's missing."

Deacon leaned back and let his hand trail down his chest. "Really? I'm flattered." Then he laughed and nudged MacCready's shoulder playfully. "I meant my stock, dude. Lost a bunch of guns, some ammo. Headed up here to resupply. And y'know. Do trader stuff. 'Cuz I'm a trader." Deacon said this on a whim. Dez had told him to act like a washed-out recruit. No way, Dez, he said to her mentally. Do I look like a Gunner recruit to you?

 _That's why you washed out_ , mental-Dez retorted.

"-didn't know any routes went by Fallon's." MacCready finished. He looked at Deacon curiously.

"Routes? No, no...I-I don't believe in routes. Because they're…predictable." Deacon had no idea where the southern trade routes went. Inspiration struck. "And there's too much competition. I'm like, independent. Just little ol' me against the Commonwealth."

"Okay." MacCready shook his head, smiling. "Funny. You'd think I'd remember a guy like you hanging around Gunner's Plaza." He picked up his glass and looked at it closely. "And I don't. Not at all. Did you put something in my drink?"

Deacon cursed inwardly. Aren't we Mr. Observant tonight, Gunner Mac? Mental-Dez rolled her eyes and sighed.

Time for double or nuthin'! He touched both hands to his chest and put on his best innocent face. "I am wounded, MacCready. Honestly. Sincerely. You think I'd do something like that?"

"I don't think I know you at all," MacCready retorted. His right hand dropped below the table. Um. Things were getting out of hand.

Deacon grabbed the glass and took a healthy gulp. "Fine, there. You see? Nothing in it." Ugh, everyone was so suspicious nowadays. Why couldn't a guy treat another guy with a drink? Did everyone have to assume that it was some sort of ploy? Besides, it wasn't like Daytripper would hurt him. Just…relax him a little.

MacCready's eyes narrowed, but his other hand came back up on the table. Whew. Okay, definitely always buy the flavorless kind. He'd been tempted, he'd thought that the mint sounded nice. Flavorless was the way to go.

He laid affected innocence on thick. "And you don't remember me? At all? Man, I gave you a great deal on all that ammo. Just because I thought you were cute." Deacon waggled his eyebrows at MacCready but got no reaction. No fair. Shameless butter up time.

"But I guess you get that a lot." Nothing. Again. This was starting to hurt his confidence. "I'm...uh..." Deacon paused. He hadn't actually bothered to think up an alias, and giving the name 'Deacon' might sound a little odd. "Um...y'know. D-Dave."

"Doesn't ring a bell." MacCready still looked suspicious, even after all that buttering and flirting. Either the guy was made of stone or Deacon needed to step it up a notch. Deacon stretched his legs out and coincidentally bumped MacCready's again.

Deacon put a hint of pathetic whine in his voice. "You know, Trader Dave?" No reaction. "Okay, well, some people call me Butcher Dave. I don't approve but nicknames are never what you want them to be, right? I mean, that's gotta be like, against the code of nicknames."

MacCready looked at him steadily. "Butcher Dave."

"Yeah."

"Interesting nickname for a trader."

"Hey. I slash prices, dude."


	3. Chapter 3

MacCready grimaced. Sheesh. _Everyone's_ a critic. Deacon thought that was a great line. Especially on the spur of the moment.

Time for a shot in the dark. Underdogs were always lovable. "All right, I also got told never to show my face in the Plaza after that one slip-up."

Dez had a pretty thick file on the Gunners. Not that he'd read the whole thing. All the meticulous planning was just so… Dez and so not… Deacon. Dave, he corrected himself. Dea—Dave was a big picture guy. Any human organization had slip-ups. He was betting that Gunners were the type of jerk organization that went the blame, shame, punish, banish route. Not the most efficient way to keep talent. Thank god, the Railroad was a little more…flexible.

MacCready looked skeptical. "I thought that was Cruz." Hard sell. No one's more suspicious than a grifter, and Deacon didn't know anything about him...but. No way he was on the up and up. Took one to know one.

"Yeah, well, I'd made a deal with him. But the bastard sold me out, got me banned."

MacCready frowned and shrugged. "Sounds like Cruz, all right. Everybody hates his guts."

He called it. He made his voice sound regretful. "Made a big dent in my business, man. I admit it, I saw you here, I couldn't help but wonder if you could get me back in."

Everybody's out for themselves—the first proverb of the Commonwealth. This particular guy, with something to hide, Deacon'd bet on that, too, he's more likely to believe that than any song-and-dance hard luck story. He finally took a sip from his drink. "Sorry, but I can't really help you. I haven't been stationed at Gunner's Plaza for six months or so."

Deacon allowed his gaze to rest skeptically on MacCready's pack, sitting in another chair to the sniper's right. Made his voice sound desperate but nobly trying to hide it. "If you don't want to, it's okay to just say so."

"Hey, I'm not sh—lying to you. I've been detached to Winlock and Barnes' unit, the jerks. All I get are the crap jobs. Go here. Go there. Go re-supply. Go pick up some recruits."

Disaffected flunky was totally Deacon's groove. "Seriously? Man, I thought you'd be promoted by now?" Did gunners do promotions? They had to. I mean, they had officers and...whatever, those guys that had the better guns than the rank and file. "The guy at the top must be blind." Look how well I'm ingratiating, Dez!

MacCready gave him a curious look. "Nah, Captain Wes is a pretty good guy." Geez. Given an opening like that, Deacon could have groused for three _solid hours_ about Desdemona. Deacon pushed down his annoyance with uncooperative sources to regroup.

Hmmm. Flashback to the list of Gunners that Dez had insisted he memorize. _You threw it away, didn't you?_ Mental-Dez asked. _Damnit, Deacon!_

Chill. He pictured the list. He had this. "Oh, I didn't mean Wes. The old boy never gave me any problems. I meant Baker. Kinda of a pain in the ass about this rule, that rule, set up here, not there. " He allowed himself a world-weary sigh. "Dunno, maybe he was cool to you, but I think we disliked each other at first sight. That's why he was ready to jump all over me when Cruz went whining to him."

MacCready nodded. "Baker's a hardass. A true believer. I could deal with that, but him and Wes both already have their favorites. And if you're not one of them, be prepared to suck up."

Deacon pursed his lips and made a kissing sound. MacCready laughed and took another sip of his drink. He was so in with this guy. See there, Dez? Skill. Pure skill. Mental-Dez declined to comment. He relaxed back into his seat and took another swig from his bottle. Appeared to swallow more than he did. Another acquired skill. "Hey now, if you're running errands for Winlock and Barnes, you must be some kinda something. They don't just trust anyone with their caps." He raised his eyebrows and gave MacCready a smirk. "You're paying in caps, right? Not just stealing whatever catches your eye?" Kid's fingers looked made to hold a lockpick.

MacCready burped and swiped his hand across his face. "Hush your mouth. I would never ever—" He broke off with a laugh. "Okay, okay, you got me there. But the official line is the Gunners want no trouble with Diamond City."

"Unofficial line is Mayor McDonough keeps Wes sweet." Deacon said, and watched Mac's eyes widen with satisfaction.

"Where'd you hear—listen, keep your voice down," he hissed, looking over one shoulder.

Deacon leaned forward. "So you're a bagman! Cool! You're like, the first one I've met, dude. Carrying around caps, threatening people—that's what I wanted to do when I grew up! I'm so impressed. So how do you carry, like thousands of caps? Brahmin? Special packs? Couriers? "

MacCready made a shushing motion with his hands. "Ix-nay on the agman-bay. 'M just a lowly messenger boy. Sometimes an errand boy. Gotta set up for the push into-" He snapped his mouth shut suddenly, and took a hasty gulp of gin.

Deacon had seen enough secrets to know that he'd nearly given the game away. Damn. What a time to suddenly get sober and responsible. So close and yet still so far away. He looked down, picking idly at the label on his bottle. It was a crude line drawing of Tinker Tom getting hit by lightning.

"Totally not noticing that sudden pause in your enchanting conversation, MacCready. Loose lips sink ships, you know. Because lip incompatibility is a very serious and underreported issue. In fact, I just happen to offer a free test for lip incompatability. It's just…wait a minute, there's this special phrase you need to say to trigger the right subroutine…." He pretended to search his pockets. "Here it is. You say 'kiss me.' If you need it stat, just add 'now.'"


	4. Chapter 4

He kept one eye on MacCready's fine fine hands as he spoke. One was loosely curled around his drink, in a way that should look relaxed and uncaring—but for the thumb, which kept restlessly rubbing in a small constricted circle. The other one was flat on the edge of the table. It might look casual, but Deacon was willing to bet hard caps that MacCready had a holdout pistol tucked into the pants pocket on that side. As for the other-sexual tension? Deacon would like to believe that… therefore he definitely shouldn't.

"I don't even know what you are talking about," MacCready retorted. He glanced up at the sky and around the corridor. It was getting late and Diamond City was slowing down. A guard strolled by and gave them a hard look. Deacon noticed MacCready noticing. If he was doing anything underhanded for the Gunners, he wouldn't want to come to the guards' attention. Stupid civilized Diamond City. You could roister til dawn in Goodneighbor and no one would blink an eye.

All righty, then. If indirect prodding wasn't working, maybe it was time to be direct. MacCready was staring down into his glass, looking a little pensive. Deacon leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the table. "So what are your feelings on synths? The kind that supposedly look like humans."

"Huh. We're tellin' scary stories now?"

Huh-one word and almost half a grunt. But Deacon had to admire its concise communication of sarcasm, amusement and contempt. So now he knew what MacCready thought of synths. He nodded and chuckled. "I know, right? Can't believe people are wasting their time like that. Didja know Security actually had to shoot a guy last week? He was waving a gun around, swearing that his brother wasn't his brother anymore."

"If the Institute is so powerful, why would they waste their time replacing random people?" MacCready shrugged. "I don't know, I just can't see it. And if a bullet in the head kills them, what does it matter?"

"Darn, so the Gunners won't be saving us all from the big bad Institute?" Deacon asked playfully.

MacCready shook his head. "If the Institute paid us a big enough fee, we'd replace half the fu-frickin' Commonwealth ourselves."

Deacon looked up sharply, but MacCready went on: "Nah, synths or the Institute aren't even in the top ten for Gunners. You know. Our real deal is killing people. Sacking settlements, collecting bribes, strong-arming little farms. Occasionally we get paid to shoot raiders or muties, that's always fun." His mouth twisted on the last words.

Well. Guy was a better actor than he looked if he could appear to have a conscience.

"I love to shoot mutants. I'd do it every day and twice on Sunday," Deacon agreed, taking another swig from his bottle. That sounded pretty decisive. Whatever the Gunners were up to, and they were obviously up to something, it wasn't aimed at the Railroad. And even if Gunners were aware of the Railroad, they'd probably ignore it. Hard to blackmail crazy idealists. Well, nothing to blackmail Trader Dave for anyway. He was as innocent as a new lamb, because he'd just been born about 20 minutes ago. He came out of his thoughts abruptly, aware that Mac was watching him. He pulled Crazy Dave the Trader back on like a coat and poked MacCready in the side. "Are you sure you're not a bagman? Because you still kinda sound like a bagman."

MacCready smiled slightly, chinking his glass against Deacon's bottle. "You wish." Now to extricate himself gracefully. MacCready sipped and Deacon noticed how his lips curved around the edge of the glass. Then he set it down and a single drop of gin (and Daytripper, let's not forget) clung to his bottom lip. That was seriously sexy. Of course, getting fixated on some dude's lips (that he barely knew) was probably a function of not thinking though all the consequences when he'd used that truly awesome sleight of hand to drop the Daytripper in MacCready's drink. Also the fact that the drug's total lack of lethality allowed him to be somewhat cavalier about the dosage. As in—it wasn't going to kill him so just use it all.

Mental-Dez—he winced. _Drugging informants? Have you_ lost _your mind?_ Yeah, he didn't want to think about it. Especially not how high and how loud Dez's voice could get if he put this in his report. No rush to head back to HQ. He could hang out with this cute guy a while longer. Speaking of which- was it getting warm in here?

Deacon shifted on the seat. Sporting an erection right now might be a tad out of character for Butcher Dave. Maybe it was in-character. Dave moved around a lot, as a trader, so he's learned to keep sex casual. But if that was the case, then he should be making a move. Not making one would be definitely out of character. Unless he was just stringing MacCready along and that didn't set right. Dave might be a jerk, but he wasn't an asshole. Or was he? Costumes, nothing but costumes all the way down. And too much introspection.

See, this is another reason why you avoid Daytripper, Deacon, he chided himself. What had he been thinking? His thoughts were scattered. Ah, yes. How to extricate himself gracefully.


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning for bad flirting. :) Thanks to everyone who reads!**

Right, but here's the thing. What if he didn't extricate himself? No putting the Daytripper back in the bottle, after all. Not like he'd ever see this guy again. What if he just hung around and got Gunner Mac between the sheets—and worked it off the old fashioned way. Beat brooding. And he might let something more slip, right? Along with his clothing.

And his self-respect, mental-Dez muttered in the back of his head.

Deacon plastered a leer on Dave's face. "I wish? That sounds promising. What if I wish for world peace? Nah, who am I kidding, no one would wish for that. That cat's out of the bag for good." He fluttered his eyelashes. "Maybe I'm wishing for a handsome prince."

MacCready looked at him sideways. Surprise but also a spark of interest. It was _about time_. "Well, Dave, that sounds like the opening of a bad radio-drama."

Deacon almost smiled for real. Guy had a quick wit. He made his voice quiver dramatically. "Ah must save the family farm. Ah'll do anything. Offer up my virtue. Act. Walk the streets. Your business is my pleasure? "

He dropped the stage voice and went on casually, "Or maybe it's your pleasure is my business. I'm not totally sure but you get the idea, right? I'm totally implying that I will sell my body to pay off the big bad bagman. I'm just kinda running out of euphemisms for prostitute myself."

MacCready's lips were twitching. "I'm not an expert, but I don't think it counts as implying when you say it straight out. Y'know. That you're a gentleman of light morals."

Deacon frowned. "See, that doesn't even sound right. In all the old books that I've read, only women could have light morals and judgey tragic endings. But I'm a genre-buster. I have hot, destructive romances with emotionally-unavailable men." He struck a pose, with one hand thrown over his eyes, while the other tugged down his shirt down revealingly. He snuck a peek out of one eye. MacCready looked depressingly un-overcome by lust. He released his shirt and sighed—moodily, because no sense wasting a good sigh. "What can I say? I have a type. I feel like it's working well for me so far, I'm gonna keep it. It's not a classic if it's not depressing."

MacCready leaned forward, close enough that Deacon could see the freckles scattered across his nose. "Right. I think I've figured out your problem. Your pickup lines suck." He took a sip of gin and added, "And not the good kind of suck. Where it's cheesy but still funny? Nope. Just…bad."

Deacon started and snapped his fingers. "Man, that isn't fair. I was being all emotionally honest…well, honest might be too strong a word, but I was certainly laying …something…out there. And now you're telling me that that's the wrong approach?" He grinned and said, "So was that an earthquake or did you just rock my world?"

"Oh, man. I'm thinking you're a disaster." MacCready lowered his eyes and then looked up bashfully. "Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?"

Deacon almost broke character and gaped at him, before recovering. He wasn't used to his conversation softballs being tossed back with that much heat. His brain ticked up into high gear, and a hard grin stole across his face. "Well, not as much as this conversation. Speaking of which, what's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?"

MacCready tossed his head back in a theatrical laugh. "I was gonna ask you the same thing! Are you from Tennessee?"

"Honey, you're the only ten I see." Deacon grabbed MacCready's hand and rubbed it across his chest. "Feel my shirt. Nice, huh? That's totally boyfriend material."

MacCready shrugged. "Eh. Looks a little clingy and hard to maintain."

Deacon snorted laughter into his bottle. "Just so you know, I could do this all night."

"And this is me believing you." MacCready hadn't pulled his hand back and Deacon's heart started to beat faster.

Mac moved his hand up to Deacon's shoulder and gripped it. "Quick question. Do you ever stop talking? Like—ever?"

Deacon grinned sultrily. "If you can shut me up, you're a better man than most."

MacCready raised his eyebrows, tone silky. "Is that a challenge? I like challenges."

Deacon said, "Yeah? I like kittens and-"

That's as far as he got before Mac leaned over and…didn't kiss him. Instead, Mac leaned so close that he could feel the faintest whisper of his breath on his cheek, one hand touching the side of his neck. And there he stopped, while the hand on his shoulder slid slowly down over his arm and his other curved around the side of his neck, raising a tingling tide of gooseflesh across his body.

Deacon swallowed, and MacCready caressed the nape of his neck.

"You stopped talking," MacCready said in a low voice. The hand on his arm moved across his stomach and up to his chest, skimming across his nipple. Deacon licked his lips.

He took a breath and MacCready pulled him sideways and kissed lightly down the side of his neck. His breath whooshed out and he forgot what he'd been about to say. MacCready's teeth fastened onto his earlobe and tugged, then sucked hard on the sensitive skin below. His hand ghosted across Deacon's stomach, dropped down to rest lightly over his fly.

"Well, what have we here." MacCready rumbled.

Deacon had to swallow before he had enough saliva to speak. Jesus. Either the Daytripper was really starting to hit, or his acting skills were dead in the water. Hmmm. Definitely the Daytripper. "Is it a puppy? I hope it's a puppy."


	6. Chapter 6

MacCready laughed and stood up, pulling Deacon with him. "Let's get out of here." The tone in his voice sent a shiver down Deacon's back. And other parts perked up too. Okay. It had been a while. He had to say, he liked the direction this was going. Easy-peasy. Maybe a little too easy? Nope, he was just that good.

"Only if 'g _et out of here_ ' is like, code for hooking up." He followed Mac into the Dugout. "And in case you were wondering, _hooking up_ is code for sex. See, I'm hip to all the latest slang." He waved to Vadim cheerfully as they passed the bar, and showed his bottle of bathtub gin. Vadim looked amused and shook his head.

MacCready stopped in front of room two and pulled a key out of his pocket. "I have a room."

"Awesome. You're prepared. Like a Boy Scout. Do you have a bandana? I can think of at least seven good uses for a bandana right now."

The door slammed behind them and MacCready pushed him up against it, clutching the lapels of his coat. "Well. That sounds interesting. Let's hear them." Then he sucked a red spot below his ear. His lips were hot and wet on Deacon's skin, his back flat against the door, the other guy's groin pressed into his. He could feel how hard he was, and when his hips moved forward involuntarily, the other pushed back with a rocking motion that made him glad for the support.

"You were saying?" MacCready mumbled against his skin, and then licked slowly, deliberately up the side of his neck.

"Bandanas, right," but the words were too gaspy, too overwhelmed, so Deacon lowered his tone to sound more in control. "Used to keep dust out of your lungs, or to hide your face while you rob banks. Or as a tourniquet, or a-" His voice faltered as MacCready began unbuttoning his shirt.

"That's not seven?" The feel of MacCready's breath on the sensitive skin of his neck made arousal curl across his stomach.

"A-a sling, or a washcloth or a towel. To mark a trail. Or as a carry pack..Or-" His voice trailed off as Mac's mouth fastened on his collarbone, sucking hard and wet.

NacCready made a muffled sound in the back of his throat. Then he said, with an edge of satisfaction, "So that's the way to stop you talking."

Deacon was having trouble thinking, like, at all. There was obviously more to this sniper than a talented mouth. With his lips red and shiny, flushed skin setting off his eyes and hair, he was like a magnet to Deacon. Too much of a magnet. Down, Deacon. Better set some boundaries. "Yeah, totally, but me, I do a lot of traveling, you know-so not a lot of time for relationships."

MacCready turned around, began unsnapping his leather armor. "Yeah? I was thinking this was a one night thing."

"Right, just a one night thing, so long as we're agreed," Deacon said, and pulled off his own shirt. "And, no mouth kissing." MacCready was neatly put together, with Gunner leathers, shirt tucked in, black pants snug over a fine ass, and Deacon really wanted to undo him in every way, undress him, unwind him, put pleading in that husky voice and sweaty tension in his limbs. He took a step forward and started undressing.

~ **fade to black** ~

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 **Author's note:** Thanks to everyone who has read! If one is so interested, an unexpurgated version without the fade to black, is on the Archive of Our Own, same title, same author name. Obviously, do not seek it out unless you are prepared to read explicit sex.


	7. Chapter 7

**Warning: Angst ahead!**

Afterwards, they are both quiet and out of breath. Deacon waited for the rush of paralyzing shame, regret and self-doubt but they all declined to show up. Instead, he felt….mostly good. He hadn't even thought about—anyone else.

He'd gotten much better at evading the stuff that he doesn't want to think about over the years and so he moved smoothly on from that thought, to thinking about resting up for a few minutes and trying again. That sounded good, in a down and dirty, I-don't-want -to – be -able-to -walk -tomorrow way. He wondered how Mac would react if he told him that.

MacCready wiped himself off with the sheet and turned over, carefully keeping a little distance between their bodies. "That was pretty awesome." That was a practiced bit of subtlety that Deacon hadn't been expecting. It would be easy to sit up and start pulling his clothes on and beat it out of there. But when does Deacon ever take the easy route?

 _All the time. Every day. Really, every single day,_ rational-him mutters. His interior voice doesn't sound like Dez anymore, more like a snotty British version of himself. Shut up, ego, or super-ego or rational self or whatever. Deacon had once made it about half-way through an old text book on something called 'psychology' but he'd had to stop before he convinced himself that he was insane.

Besides, a one night stand was by literal definition, one night. Not one hour. One more go-round and then he'd be out of here like a tree in the fall. Rational him reluctantly conceded. "You'd better say that-after all the effort I put into my dirty talk? Seriously, I spent weeks composing that, it's like, my lifetime's work. But no worries. We can give it another go. Unless-" His mouth was still a little dry so it took more effort than it usually did to sound like the chill-est, most low-key dude in the 'Wealth, "Unless you need to come and go."

The quirk in Mac's lips said that he appreciated the double entendre. "Not til tomorrow," he murmured. "Winlock and Barnes run me ragged between Hyde Park and the Plaza."

Deacon wrapped his arms around MacCready and pulled him closer. Appreciative leer. "Ragged. Sounds interesting."

MacCready relaxed, one hand flattening loosely across Deacon's chest. "Sure. Hey, you're not headed to Quincy anytime soon, are you?"

"Nope. I'm a city boy. If it doesn't have ruined buildings, supermutants and a bustling night-life, it's not for me." Deacon yawned and stretched out his legs, and MacCready obligingly shifted over. It didn't feel too awkward, which was one thing that he usually disliked about one night stands. Mac was …refreshing.

He took a deep breath and relaxed. Mmm… He wasn't sure he could stay awake after another round. Maybe he'd be up for a quickie in the morning. Because…. No way was he forgetting this guy. He could see the value in a friendly contact inside the Gunners and he bet he could convince Dez of it, too. And as far as that one-night-only thing, eh, he lied a lot. He'd have make an occasional rendezvous to check-in.

Rational-self snorted. _You really think you're going for some hot-guys-with-benefits hook up, Deacon?_

Fair enough. Maybe he wouldn't. Chances _were_ good that pretty soon he'd recant and scoot. Right now, he was buzzed enough to be aware that he was buzzed and that lent some emotional honesty to his thoughts. How much was Daytripper and how much was Deacon? If he didn't feel repulsed remembering this tomorrow, then that might be a problem. But leave that for now-keeping Mac as a source was too heavy. He'd rather think about kissing MacCready from neck to toes, and then heading back to the Old North Church, with a (hopefully) sore ass, and a neatly-sanitized version of this encounter for Dez.

Nowhere near Quincy or Covenant or the other two-bit settlements out there. Huh. A little bit of truth there, he actually was a city boy. _Don't make that a habit, Deacon_ , rational-self warned. If his memory served Hyde Park was just up the road from Quincy. He was pretty sure they had a tourist there, he thought idly, and where there were tourists, there was a resettled synth or two. Smuggling all synths out of the Commonwealth was a relatively recent Railroad policy and there were still synths scattered across Boston. And some that _did_ leave, managed to end up here again.

Wait a minute. Tickle at the back of his mind. He'd heard something recently. Oh yeah. Someone talking about an overdue caravan. From…

Bits of talk, rumors, overheard whispers suddenly fell into place with a click. And everything snapped from lazy softness to sharp colors and hard edges. It was a shock, but he was with it, on top of it, because _Deacon_ was good in a crisis. He pushed MacCready away and sat up, the coldness in his veins making it hard to breathe. "Are the Gunners going to hit Quincy?"

MacCready's muscles tightened, and that told him all he needed to know. "What the hell is in Quincy?" He ground his hands into his eyes. "When?" Synths lived there. Memory-wiped, living as humans synths. Looking for a warm hearth in this cold world.

"I don't know," MacCready said, low. "I asked, I got my chops busted, and now they won't tell me."

Deacon jumped out of bed and started pulling his clothes on. "Soon?" What was he saying, of course it was soon, otherwise why would be Mac be cutting through Diamond City to—how had he put it?-to pick up recruits, supplies, etc. He was shocked that he'd been so stupid. The Gunners were up to something but it didn't involve the Railroad. You'd think that he'd have learned by now that the Commonwealth would never run out of violence and hatred, and it always ended up splashing. He didn't care about Quincy, the Railroad was too thinly spread as it was to worry about human on human violence…but the synths. The tourist. He had to warn them to get out.

"Who are you?" He turned around to find MacCready staring at him as if he'd never seen him before. Well, he hadn't. He'd seen Trader Dave, not-Deacon felt a flash of regret, hastily suppressed. Plans, thoughts, fun, whatever—none of it mattered now. He'd seen his face, the real him. There would be no keeping this source. _Wasteland bible, verse 1:1: Everybody's out for themselves._

Deacon leaned over him deliberately and grabbed his throat, tightly enough to cause pain, but not do any permanent damage. If he stopped to think about it, it actually disgusted him that he knew where that line was. "When?" he repeated. "I don't want to hurt you, man."

MacCready's eyes never left his, and he didn't even struggle. "I said I don't know." His voice was strained and soft and the vibration of his throat beneath Deacon's fingers felt ...intimate. MacCready had a faint red hickey under one ear, and Deacon wasn't sure if he had put it there. An instant of dizziness, like the floor was being pulled out from under him. Nope. No time for this. Deacon released him and stepped back. He wasn't going to hurt MacCready-him. That guy he'd…. No, just that guy. The Gunner. Torture took too long anyway. His fingernails had left marks on ….. His stomach lurched.

"Who are you?" the other guy repeated. He had to get out of here. He could feel the time ticking, trickling away, and -

"Someone who cares about s-I mean, Quincy." He stepped back from the bed warily, and half-buttoned his shirt and shoved his feet into his boots. Running out of here half-dressed was real walk-of-shame shit. The bartender would never let him live it down. He'd have to have a face change before he could come back to Diamond City. Meanwhile, cold, calculating rational Deacon was trying to figure out what to do with this information. There was a dead drop close by but he didn't remember the pickup schedule. He could report to Dez, but that might be too late. The only sure way would be to head there himself. Walking. Hell. He wasn't even sure how long it would take. He took another step back and turned away toward the door.

The bed squeaked and rustled and then there was a metallic click and something cold touched his skin at the base of his neck. Shit! He thought he'd put all of Mac's-the Gunner's, damnit-guns out of his reach. He swallowed and held his hands up at chest level. Gauged the likelihood of reaching his thirty-eight before his skull got perforated.

"Who are you?" MacCready repeated icily, and hey, he was a lot more persuasive when he had a gun to your head.


	8. Chapter 8

Dave. Johan. Drifter-dude. Mike, Diamond City guard. Deacon rapidly considered and discarded multiple personas, before deciding on the easiest. "I'm no one. No threat to you. But I have people in Quincy and I've got to warn them."

A little more truth than he had planned to reveal. MacCready grabbed his pistol off his belt. Deacon could hear the click as he unloaded it. One handed. The pressure of the gun at his head eased up a little. "Took you long enough. You'll tell the Minutemen?"

Minutemen? That washed-up group of smug-Deacon was startled into the truth. "What? No."

He looked down and to one side and he could see MacCready's bare feet behind him. He felt a surge of dismay and something like… betrayal. Pushed it down. Whatever. Amateur. _Tourist._ Mentally, he gave the term the contemptuous twist that Glory and Carrington always used. If Deacon wanted to get some info to the right ears, half-a-dozen ways leapt to mind and 'sleep with a handy trader' wasn't even in the top _three_.

MacCready moved around in front of him, naked and still holding the gun, a small tricked-out ten millimeter, with one hell of a big silencer. Deacon admired it and the view, even as he wondered where Mac had had it hidden. Looked like he needed to review personal searches with Tinker Tom. Going on the to-do list.

The Gunner looked pissed. That _was_ a little worrisome. But surely he hadn't spilled the beans so dramatically just to kill him now. "There are families in Quincy. Kids."

Now it was Deacon's turn to feel angry. Low blow, dude. Low even for a Gunner. He hid it behind an easy smile. "They're not my problem."

The other guy's finger tightened on the trigger, whether from reflex or deliberately, Deacon couldn't tell. He threw his arms out in alarm. "Whoa, man, I said I'm no threat to you! I was telling the truth!"

He finally pushed his shoulders back and eased off the trigger, which helped slow Deacon's heart. Although now would be the time to rush him. But even naked and with his finger off the trigger, Deacon didn't like the odds. The other man held the gun like it was an extension of himself. He glanced back at his face and was surprised to see the smaller man smiling, hard and humorless. "Go ahead," the Gunner invited. "Try it."

His poker face was failing badly if Mac—no, if that _other guy_ could read him so well. Deacon gave himself a quick once-over, tense shoulders, hands nearly clenched, poised forward on the balls of his feet. _Crap, Deacon, you're a mess_ , rational-self commented in amusement. Shut up.

He took a step back, kept his hands up. "No, you're right." Lowered head in dejection and then... _Slowly_ : widened his stance, relaxed his upper body and smiled, slow, easy, both hands half-held out, as if for the other to take. "Look, I'm sorry. MacCready-this is just a misunderstanding. There's no real reason for us to be at odds, right?" Slight crinkle of the eyes, twitch of the lips, subtle reminders of what they were doing a few minutes ago, what they could be doing now, instead of fighting.

MacCready took a breath and almost relaxed, Deacon could see the tension beginning to ease out of his frame... But then he shook his head, smiling. "Pretty damn good. I'd almost believe you if I hadn't already seen your O face." The gun barrel was still steady as a rock on Deacon's mid-section. "For the last time, who are you?"

Deacon felt the fight drain out of him with a rush. He was so tired suddenly. And this was wasting time that he didn't have. "All right, all right. I'm Deacon. I'm with the Railroad."

"The Railroad," MacCready repeated in clear surprise. "The idiots trying to free synths?"

Deacon smiled, added a double-helping of sarcasm, hardened his expression. "Yeah, hey, so you know us. We're like, famous. Cool." He straightened up to his full height, dropped the lazy drawl. "Not as famous as the Gunners will be once they butcher Quincy, but that just gives us a goal. Everybody needs something to shoot for." _Shoot_ for? Get it, Gunner?

The gibe hit home and MacCready's face closed down. Deacon took mean satisfaction in it. "So MacCready, if that really is your name, are you going to kill me out of pique, or can I go? Seems I've got an appointment in Quincy." Tried to ignore the sour taste that saying his name left in his mouth.

Mac's eyes were angry. "Yep, that's really my name." He lowered the gun slowly. "But Deacon's a code name, right? Run around and play your stupid little spy games, while real people die."

Real people. Like Barbara hadn't been real? Like the synths he'd helped since then hadn't been real. Screw this guy. Sure that he knew the truth. Deacon was way ahead of him. There wasn't anything special about him, them, humans in general. It took pre-war humans to really screw up the world. Maybe it was the synths' turn. Also like M- Like Gunners didn't shoot 'real people' for a living.

Deacon took his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slipped them on. Welcomed the dimmed, slightly-unreal version of the world. Made it easier to keep his tone light and unemotional. "So I'm being judged now. By a killer. A murderer even. That feels unfair. Tell me, Gunner, who was your last contract? Man, woman, child?" Deacon paused for a long beat, before finishing on a gently musing tone: "Do you even remember?"

The _Gunner_ smiled bitterly and Deacon saw a familiar echo in his eyes. Because he recognized self-loathing, said the interior voice. He wasn't crazy. Deacon was perfectly capable of owning up to his deficiencies, thank you very much. He saw them every morning when he looked in the mirror. He knew them...intimately, one might say. They said things like ' _You don't deserve to be alive, much less in the Railroad'_ and ' _You are literal scum_.'

MacCready finally lowered his neat little gun, and gestured toward the door wearily. "Yeah. I guess as far as complete _fricking_ wastes of time go, the Railroad is super noble. Better than the Gunners, that's for sure. Now get out."

Deacon eased slowly toward the door, but the other didn't move. Thought about saying something, then thought again. Closed the door behind him gently. "Well, that could have gone better," he remarked to the empty hallway. He turned and stared at the doorknob. Plain brass. Tarnished. Just like everything else in this wonderful post-apocalypse. Resisted the urge to reach out and turn it.

It didn't matter. He'd gotten what he was after. He took a deep breath and his hands were… not shaking. He was fine. He was Deacon, Railroad super-agent. He definitely was not affected by that Gunner's bullshit. He stepped out into the pre-dawn quiet and headed toward the gates. The guards would let him through and he could start the walk to Quincy. He'd drop a line to the militia if he was in time. Maybe.

He wasn't.

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/the end/

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 **Author's Note:** So it might not fit the time line, but too bad—it's just too sweet and angsty not to imagine that the issue of Quincy is why MacCready quit the Gunners.

MacCready-short, younger and so easily underestimated…to the point where it's now a survival strategy to allow himself to be underestimated….sigh. He pegged Deacon about 30 seconds after he sat down, but for reasons of his own, found it beneficial to play along… And despite the clues that MacCready was not as fooled as he wanted to think, Deac jumped right on in.

MacCready's last comment includes the word 'f*cking' (subbed out as fricking due to rules). Per game canon, MacCready will say it when he's upset enough. And here Mac is making himself incredibly vulnerable, risking everything… And Deacon throws it right back in his face, calls him a murderer and a killer…

Deacon-he's a liar's liar and constantly playing a part…. His casual, chill tone is just as much of a disguise as his sunglasses. He has to keep everyone at arm's length, and distant politeness is one way to do it. A lot of Deacon's personal narrative is built around self-protection. He has to be in control at all times…he has to…or he lashes out and we get nasty, passive-aggressive Deacon saying as much mean shit as he can think up.

(Even when he's in a good mood, he's passive-aggressive- "Before I met you, I used to go whole days without massacring a bunch of things"-but when he's upset, the filters really come off. One of his 'upset Deacon' lines to the player is: "You pre-War types really did a number on the world, didn't you?")

I really hope you enjoy. I might re-visit these two in another fic. I know, I know, Deacon said just one night (and no mouth kissing) but we already know Deacon's full of crap, right? Thank you for reading!


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